


Lana

by Antlerish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s09e19 Alex Annie Alexis Ann, Gen, Tag, That's it, and some bantering over awesome music, just a broment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 07:42:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3319526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antlerish/pseuds/Antlerish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag to 9x19- Alex Annie Alexis Ann. "Sam stares at his music player, considering. Either Dean's just making conversation to be polite, which, while admirable, is a little too sad for this time of night, or he's genuinely hoping it'll be something worth teasing over. Sam doesn't care which."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lana

**Author's Note:**

> Tag to Alex Annie Alexis Ann, because I needed a broment after all the angst. This was written in the middle of my morph into a full on Sam!girl, so some of my portrayal of him may be a bit wonky- just a fair warning. Also this was written almost a year ago.

Dean has stopped talking to him, and in all honesty Sam isn't that surprised. He likes to think it's because his brother has finally, finally, gotten tired of lying to him, and can't keep saying "I'm fine" when they both know he's not. But in reality it's probably just because he seems to be constantly irritated with Sam. Which... also doesn't surprise Sam, and actually makes him feel a little sad inside, though he's loath to admit it, even to himself.  
He knows that things he's said recently have knocked Dean back a bit- hell, he's still reeling a little from what it took to get those words out- but it doesn't change the fact that Dean had violated his trust in the worst way possible. Sam still winces just thinking that word. You'd think what with his track record involving possession and all that the least Dean would've offered would be a goddamned apology, for christ's sake, but no. He's still muddling through this whole shit-storm, insisting he can do it himself when he's always been the one to say they're better together. With a guilty pang Sam realizes that Dean's probably sloughed off that particular protective skin because of what Sam told him.

It's been a few days since the vamps up in Sioux Falls, and Sam still has dizzy spells when he stands up too quick. It's frustrating, because their whole lives have been about speed; thinking and acting quickly so you don't, you know, die or something. But now he's having to force himself to slow down, take things easier, because he'd rather not pass out on the cold, hard floor with only a similarly cold, hard Dean to take care of him.  
So they've pretty much been avoiding each other, pretending that things are just fine. Occasionally they have awkward conversations about nothing while waiting for the coffee to brew in the mornings, and they can mostly stand to research in the same room, sometimes even at opposite ends of the same table.

"What a mature, healthy step in the right direction," Sam thinks darkly to himself as he surveys the practically nonexistent offerings of the fridge. It's proof, he realizes with a slightly sick feeling in his stomach. The lack of food is proof that Dean hasn't even been bothering to eat, and suddenly the realization that he desperately misses his brother fixing the fridge, and cursing the stove that burned him, and actually admitting that he was "nesting" makes Sam's eyes sting. He sniffs and angrily slams the fridge shut, listening to the bottles of beer clink together.  
"I hate this," he whispers, the "ess" sound sharp and piercing in the silence.  
\-------------------------

One thirty AM rolls around and finds Sam sitting cross-legged on the counter, scrambling eggs on the stove to his right, and scrolling through the albums on his iPod. There's eggshells on the counter that he doesn't feel like cleaning up, and his shoes are across the room from where he yanked them off and threw them at the freezer in a fit of frustration when he tried to light the gas range and burned himself.  
He glances up when Dean stalks into the room, pulling one of his earbuds out as an automatic gesture of courtesy. Dean shakes the empty coffee pot for a few seconds, as if to convince himself that it really is gone, before heaving a sigh and rubbing his forehead. Finally he turns, leans back against the table, and looks sort of at Sam but mostly at Sam's knees.  
"What're you doing?" He asks, voice rough and gravelly from disuse.  
Sam looks at his brother for a moment, trying not to let the ache in his heart show on his face. "Making eggs," he says, and gestures with his iPod to the back of the stove. "There's hot coffee over here."  
He almost regrets saying it like that, as if it's a challenge; "if you want it come and get it", but Dean's always responded well to challenges, and if that's what it takes to get some basic interaction going, then so be it.  
Dean takes his time selecting a mug from the counter behind him, casually avoiding meeting Sam's gaze, and finally makes his way to the stove for coffee. He leans against the counter there then, and stares unseeing across the kitchen.  
Sam shuts the stove off and reaches back, vaguely grateful for long limbs, to pull two plates from a cabinet. He dishes eggs up onto both, adding a fork to one, and holds it across the stove to Dean with a muted "here."  
Dean startles a little and then stares at the plate a moment before setting his coffee down and taking it.  
"There's cheese in them," Sam adds, wishing he didn't have to keep hearing just his own voice.  
"Awesome," is all Dean says, but he seems to mean it, and actually eats.  
They're quiet for a good long while then, each lost in their own thoughts, but Sam's just thankful that Dean's actually staying in the same room as him for longer than ten minutes, and for something other than work. When he thinks about it, he can honestly say that he doesn't want things to be unfixable between them. He doesn't want them to be distant, because really, if they don't have each other, what do they have? Although he tries not to think about that often, because it threatens to cut his fragile threads of sanity and control that are left.  
Sam unfolds his legs a little painfully and drops them off the edge of the counter, his heels thumping gently against the cabinet. He snatches up his iPod before it slides off its perch on his thigh, and Dean looks up at the sudden movement.  
"What're you listening to?" He asks after a moment.  
Sam stares at his music player, considering. Either Dean's just making conversation to be polite, which, while admirable, is a little too sad for this time of night, or he's genuinely hoping it'll be something worth teasing over. Sam doesn't care which.  
He sets his empty plate aside, mouth quirking sideways in a sort of smile. "Lana Del Rey," he finally admits, and quickly cuts his eyes to the right to see his brother's response.  
Dean can't keep the automatic laugh from breaking out, and his eyes crinkle briefly at the corners. "Oh my god," he mutters, and shakes his head slowly. "Such a girl..."  
He trades his plate out for his cup of coffee and walks away, but pauses at the door. "Lana's damn sexy," he says seriously over his shoulder, and then he's gone. "Thanks for the eggs, bitch," echoes down the hallway.  
Sam looks down at his hands, and doesn't realize he's crying until tears start showing up on his jeans. He takes a deep breath, but it catches on the way back out and now it just hurts. There's an ache in his chest that he recognizes all too well as the painful sensation of something missing. It's almost physical, as though he could fill that spot with the steady beat of another's heart, and ease that ache just by holding the warmth of brother-blood in his arms, as tight as he could.  
He swallows hard, takes a gulp of coffee that scalds his tongue but hurts so much less than his heart, and slides off the counter to clean up. "You're welcome, jerk," he whispers.

**Author's Note:**

> Omg, this looks so much shorter in the AO3 format than in the ff.net format. I feel like I've become more of a grown up by joining this site.


End file.
